Ash coated his raw throat, thick and tasting of copper, filling his lungs with every desperate breath he took. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging intensely, but he dared not blink for even a fraction of a second. Acrid smoke billowed from the burning pines surrounding the village, choking the air with a thick, suffocating haze. Soot drifted down like gray snow, settling on his raw shoulders and coating the open wounds that mapped his body. Crimson light from the dying sky bathed the scene in a bloody hue, a terrible mockery of the sacred nights his tribe used to celebrate. Before him, the final Gashfang lurched through the smoke, its massive, spider-like limbs clicking against the scorched stone of the sacred courtyard. His fingers tightened around the hilt of the Flame Sword, his knuckles turning white as he forced his trembling muscles to hold their ground. Flame flared along the black steel blade, responding to his ragged breath, casting a harsh orange glow over the ruins of his home. Runes carved along the volcanic metal glowed white-hot, humming with a low, vibrating energy that traveled up his arms. Using this weapon required more than physical strength; it demanded his very life force, draining his energy like water through sand. Every second the blade remained active, Jan could feel his heart rate spike, his pulse hammering like a war drum against his ribs. Its multiple eyes locked onto him, glistening with the dark, empty malice of the Eldritch Maw, the collective nightmare that had consumed everything he loved. A guttural hiss tore from the beast's throat, spraying acidic drool that hissed violently as it struck the burning earth. Steel met bone in a screeching collision as Jan lunged forward, his blade carving a burning arc through the dark. Black blood sprayed from the monster's shoulder, sizzling against the heat of his sword and filling the air with the stench of burning sulfur. Jan gritted his teeth, his muscles screaming in protest as he rolled beneath a snapping pincer that shattered the stone where he had stood a second before. He had been fighting for three days without sleep, without food, driven only by the raw instinct to survive. Monsters of the Eldritch Maw had poured over the northern ridges without warning, a relentless tide of claws and teeth. Gashfangs, the scout beasts of the horde, had bypassed their outer defenses in minutes, tearing through the sentries before an alarm could be raised. Desperate cries had echoed through the valley as his brothers and sisters fought back with spears and arrows, but their weapons had done little against the armored carapaces of the beasts. Memories of the slaughter flashed behind his eyelids—screams of his kin, the roar of the consuming horde, the desperate final stand of the Red Night Tribe. They had fought to the last man, the last woman, the last child, holding the line against an endless tide of darkness. Now, only he remained, the Eighth Founder, the last ember of a dead fire, carrying the weight of a fallen civilization. --- With a roar that tore his throat raw, Jan swung the heavy sword upward, channeling his remaining life force into the weapon. Roaring fire erupted from the blade, wrapping around the beast’s front leg and snapping the chitinous armor with a loud, sickening pop. Chitin exploded outward in hot shards, some of them slicing into Jan's cheek, but he did not flinch. Pain was a distant thing now, suppressed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins and the pure, unadulterated hatred that fueled him. He stepped forward, driving his boot into the creature's wounded knee to throw it off balance. Bone splintered, and the Gashfang sagged, its massive weight shifting as it tried to impale him with its remaining limbs. Screaming in fury, the monster thrust its head forward, jaws snapping inches from Jan's face, close enough for him to smell its rotting breath. Blood dripped from a deep gash on Jan’s forehead, obscuring his vision, but he did not need to see to know where to strike. Sensing the rhythm of the beast, he anticipated the next strike, moving with a fluid grace born of a lifetime of brutal training. Heavy, clumsy, driven only by a mindless hunger to erase everything human, the monster lunged again with its massive tail. Jan stepped inside the creature's guard, his boots sinking into the hot ash that covered the courtyard. He drove his shoulder into its chest, using the momentum to thrust the Flame Sword deep into its soft underbelly. Heat exploded from the point of impact, turning the creature's black blood into steam. Liquid fire poured into the creature's open wound, vaporizing its black blood and sending thick, foul-smelling steam into the air. Screeching in agony, the Gashfang flailed, its razor-sharp legs slashing blindly through the smoke. One of those claws caught Jan across the ribs, tearing his leather armor and leaving a shallow but painful trail of blood. Ancient steel drank his stamina, channeling his life force into a white-hot burst of destructive energy that made his veins feel like they were on fire. Steam hissed from the wound as the inner organs of the beast began to incinerate. It thrashed wildly, its heavy limbs beating against Jan's back, cracking his ribs and forcing a gasp of blood from his lips. Jan held on, his grip like iron, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth threatened to shatter. "For the Red Night," he whispered, his voice a gravelly rasp. He twisted the blade, unleashing the full, unbridled fury of his ancestors. Fire consumed the Gashfang from the inside out, turning its internal organs to ash before bursting through its eyes and mouth in twin jets of white-hot ruin. --- Collapsing under its own weight, the massive beast fell forward, pinning Jan to the blood-soaked ground. Pushing the heavy, smoking carcass off himself, Jan crawled out into the open air, his chest heaving as he fought for oxygen. Silence descended upon the valley, heavy and absolute, pressing down on his ears like a physical weight. No wind stirred the thick clouds of black soot that hung suspended in the stagnant air. Not even a bird sang. Only the soft, rhythmic crackle of dying fires broke the quiet of the graveyard. Jan stood up, his legs shaking violently, using the sword as a crutch to keep himself upright. He looked around at the charred remains of the sanctuary that had stood for generations. Ash-covered mounds of rubble marked where the granaries and workshops had stood, all their hard work reduced to nothing in a single night. Statues of the ancient founders were cracked and broken, their majestic stone faces blackened by the intense heat. Nothing had survived the onslaught; the Eldritch Maw left only desolation in its wake. Monuments of the Great Hall were nothing but stone pillars rising like broken teeth against the dark sky. Homes where his friends lived, the training grounds where he had learned to wield the flame, the sacred tombs of the previous founders—all lay reduced to dust. Grief pressed down on his chest, a weight far heavier than the corpse of the Gashfang. He wanted to scream, to curse the heavens, to weep for the sisters and brothers he could not save. But the tears would not come. His throat was too dry, his heart too cold. Instead, a dark, freezing resolve settled deep into his bones, replacing the warmth of his grief with a brutal, single-minded hunger for vengeance. They would pay. Every single beast, every manifestation of the Eldritch Maw. He would hunt them to the ends of the earth, even if he had to walk through hell alone. --- Dragging his feet through the warm ash, Jan made his way toward the shattered archway of the Elders' Sanctum. Broken statues of past heroes lay scattered across the floor, their stone faces blackened by the fire. Kneeling beside a fallen figure, Jan recognized the scorched armor of his mentor, the Seventh Founder. Tears of blood had dried on the old man's cheeks, his eyes staring blankly at the ruined ceiling. Jan closed the old man's eyes with a gentle touch, his hand trembling despite his efforts to remain strong. "Your flame is not extinguished," Jan whispered into the dead air, his voice cracking. He reached down and unclasped a small, silver medallion from his mentor's neck, a symbol of their lineage. Pocketing the medallion, Jan felt a sudden surge of anger, hot and sharp, cutting through his exhaustion. This was not a fair war; it was an annihilation. None of them had stood a chance against the sheer numbers of the Gashfang horde. Yet, they had fought with everything they had, refusing to beg for mercy from monsters that knew only hunger. Jan stood up, his gaze hardening as he looked at the thousands of dead beasts littering the valley. For every warrior of the Red Night who had fallen, ten monsters lay dead beside them. Still, it was not enough. Vengeance would not bring his people back, but it would give their ghosts peace. He would become the blade of their memory. --- Jan wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, leaving a dark smear across his pale skin. Securing the Flame Sword on his back, he began to walk toward the edge of the sanctuary. His gaze swept the desolate landscape, searching for any sign of life, but finding only ruin. Nothing but ruin remained. Or so he believed. Stopping at the edge of the high cliff that overlooked the eastern wastes, he stared out into the endless dark. Then, something caught his eye. As the final embers of his tribal home glowed, a faint, impossible light flickers on the distant horizon, a stark contrast to the world Jan thought he knew.

Chapter 1: Red Night's Last Ember